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Hari Kunzru’s short-story “Raj, Bohemian” appears in the latest New Yorker (Hat-tip, Ultrabrown):
I spent the next couple of days squatting on my haunches in a corner of my empty flat. Something in me had snapped, was broken beyond repair. My taste had been central to my identity. I’d cultivated it, kept it fed and watered like an exotic flowering plant. Now I realized that what I thought had been an expression of my innermost humanity was nothing but a cloud of life-style signals, available to anyone at the click of a mouse. How had this happened?
It is often noted that Kunzru is a writer who deals with ideas. For example, the word “expropriated” is employed in this short-story–when did that last happen? The main argument here, the polemic against capitalism, works because it is amped-up and slightly comical. It’s almost as if a sober, unglamorously realistic critique would be a bit too unrealistic. But I was also struck by the clever, quick moving sentences that don’t allow the reader to be oppressed by ideas. The details are sharp and sensual. It’s almost as clever as advertising. “All my friends seemed to be dropping snippets of advertising copy into their conversation, short messages from their sponsors. They were constantly stating preferences for particular brands, dishing out free samples.” And, of course, there is also at the end the piquancy of oblivion and complete subjugation.
Also, James Wood reviews Kunzru’s last novel.
